


this sucks, he left me here alone

by hsulove



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: ALSO TRIGGER WARNING: self harm, and this virus can suck my dick, anyway i hope yall enjoy this, because it hurts, but - Freeform, but im forcing myself to write this because well, but like minor like... scratching, does that make sense? probably not, drunk jake makes a cameo, i want to, i wanted to write this really bad, im also SICK OFF MY ASS right now, im seeing bmc in 7 days!! im hype, so i cant even write that much, so... my own version of mitb, this is how it goes down in my im still heere fic thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:04:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hsulove/pseuds/hsulove
Summary: of all possible applications for such mind-blowingly advanced technology, michael never thought it would lead to this.





	this sucks, he left me here alone

**Author's Note:**

> tw ; scratching (self-harm)

_Bang! Bang! BANG!_

Oh God, no. No, fuck, please no. Stop.

_Bang! BANG! BANG!_

Stop, please. Go away. Please, please, just go away.

_BANG! BANG! BANG!_

Take a breath, Michael. Holy shit, just breathe. 

_Clang! Clang! Clang!_

Oh my God, they’re banging on the handle now. No, no. Just breathe. You’re okay. It’s all gonna be okay.

Michael turned on the faucet to Jake’s sink, which was honestly probably fancier than anything he could even dream of owning, splashing puddles of the water onto his tear-stained face, his hands shaking, his head pounding and his breathing uneven. He took a deep breath, praying to all the gods he didn’t believe in that he could just keep composure for a few more minutes, just so he could get to his car without breaking down sobbing again. 

With a shaky hand, he reached for the doorknob, but stopped. There was no more knocking. They left. They finally left.

Michael dropped his head onto the door in a mix of disappointment and relief as more tears began to run down his cheeks. He didn’t understand. He was dumbfounded. None of it made sense. Just last month, Jeremy was hugging him and riding on his back and hanging out with him and actually seemed to enjoy his presence. Was it all just an act to get to the Squip? How long had Jeremy actually hated him? Had Jeremy even wanted to keep being his friend to begin with, or did he just have too much anxiety to drop him until the Squip came around? Michael just didn’t understand. Was he the problem? Was he too much? Was he too dependent on Jeremy? He just _didn’t understand._

Michael sunk down to the floor, pressing his back against the door and hugging his arms tightly, because if he didn’t hug himself, who would? Clearly not Jeremy. Not anymore. God, just thinking about his name hurt. He choked back silent sobs and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that it would stop the crying. The longer he sat there, the more the situation sank in, and the more the situation sank in, the more it hurt. 

Michael thought back to all the happy childhood memories with his best friend. Well, ex-best friend, now. How they used to have sleepovers in his treehouse, or how they used to go to Six Flags every month, or how they would play video games together until Michael’s PlayStation overheated. How they used to seem so happy, how they would laugh and have fun. How much of that happiness was genuine? Was _any_ of it genuine? 

Everything felt fine when he was part of a pair. Michael was never one of those guys who felt that he needed to be surrounded by friends to be happy. He just needed that special someone, Jeremy, to feel happy. But now, Jeremy was gone, and he had nothing.

Michael dragged his nails across his blemished arms, pushing down as hard as he could, gritting his teeth as he felt the stinging pain run through his veins. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care how much it hurt. He just wanted something else -- _anything_ else -- to focus on besides his current situation. He just wanted to go home to the safe comfort of his bed and hug his dogs. He just wanted to bury himself in the covers and turn on Steven Universe and get high and pull himself together and just forget that night ever happened at all. 

Michael’s quiet sobs echoed around the bathroom walls, just barely drowning out all the drunken screaming and loud, bassy music playing just on the other side of the door. The noise, paired with his broken heart and the paranoid fear that those people at the door were going to come back, only further worsened his panic attack. Fuck. Of all days, of course _this_ was the day he decided not to wear his headphones, or even at least bring them. Michael was so nervous about the possibility of losing them that he didn’t even take into account how loud it was going to be at a fucking high schooler’s party. He punched himself internally for being so stupid. 

Michael released his nails from his arms, looking down to see bloody lines painted across his skin. Michael rubbed the blood away, not caring if it just kept flowing. At this point, Michael just wished he’d never been born, offed himself, whatever, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with this. He’d never really cared about the bullying until that night. How people made fun of him for being a loner or driving a PT Cruiser or being a stoner who wore weed socks or whatever people made fun of him for, making assumptions about him when in reality the only thing they knew about him was his name. But after Jeremy came in, after Jeremy called him a _loser_ , the laziest insult in the world, even lazier than calling someone gay, but for some reason, hearing it coming from Jeremy’s mouth so sincerely, it just hurt so much.

Michael forced himself to stand up, walking over to the mirror and looking at the mess that was his face. His hair was going in every direction and tear-stains ran down his cheeks and his whole body was shaking as he listened to the heartbeat pounding in his skull. He splashed more water into his face, rubbing the tears away as best he could. He rolled down his sleeves and adjusted his cap, checking his face again. His eyes were still red and puffy and watery, but he just shrugged, assuming he could just act like he was coming down from a high on the off chance someone came up to him to check if he was okay, or more likely to make fun of him. He took a final deep breath before approaching the door, anxiously reaching out to twist the doorknob, letting the loud music and screams pour into the bathroom as he stepped out, praying that nobody would notice who he was or that he was there.

Parties were definitely not Michael’s scene. He always thought there were too many people and that it was too loud and all the drunk teenagers making out with each other always gave him really bad anxiety for some reason. So it never bothered him that nobody wanted to ever invite him to them. 

Michael held himself close as he slowly and cautiously walked through the hordes of people as his heartbeat raced. He forced down the panic attack he felt coming on. He walked down the stairs of the house, almost speedwalking to the door in hopes he wouldn’t be noticed as drunk teenager after drunk teenager shoved him and pushed him to the side as they made their way to empty bedrooms to hook up. Michael didn’t try to confront them. He didn’t want to draw any attention to himself by yelling at someone for knocking him a few inches to his right.

He noticed Jeremy sitting on the couch, drunkenly leaning on Christine’s shoulder as she playfully yelled at him for getting wasted. Michael tore his gaze away from them as he felt tears pushing at the back of his tired eyes, desperately searching for something else to focus on. It ended up being Rich Goranski, who was uncharacteristically pulling at his hair and pacing back and forth, almost anxiously, while mumbling to himself and chugging shot after shot, like he’s praying he’ll get buzzed or drunk or something. Damn. Popular people are messed up.

Michael found himself only a few feet away from the door, and smiled for the first time that night as he realized he was home free. His smile quickly faded when he felt someone forcefully grip his shoulder. “Yo, man, leavin’ already?”

Fuck, Jake.

Michael anxiously looked up at Jake, who towered over him, dressed as Prince. Well, that’s what Michael was assuming his costume was. He was basically just wearing a 1770’s purple jacket without a wig. Michael wondered if there was any wig to begin with. He could tell from Jake’s swaying back and forth that he was drunk out of his mind. 

“U-uh,” Michael stammered, praying that Jake wouldn’t recognize him. “Y-Yeah. My, uh, my moms are real strict about my curfew, you know?” It was barely ten, but Michael still hoped his half-assed attempt at an excuse would somehow work, saving him from the wrath of the somewhat terrifying Jake Dillinger.

“Aaaah, fuckin’ parents, right?” Jake swayed before resting an arm on Michael’s shoulder, probably to help him keep his balance. “Nah, nah, man, good on you for listenin’ to ya old folks. Mine ain’t around no more. Kinda wish I was nicer to ‘em while I still had the chance.”

Oh.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Michael said. And he was. He heard Jeremy’s loud, all too familiar laugh boom from behind him. Michael felt a tear run down his eyelash almost immediately, and he rushed to wipe it away with his sleeve before Jake noticed.

“Don’t worry about it, bro. How was the party?” 

Terrible. Horrible. Michael wanted nothing more than to forget it.

“Awesome. I’m so glad I came.”

“Really?” Jake sounded ecstatic. “Aw man, I’m so happy you had fun!”

Michael forced a smile and nodded before quickly walking out of the house and to his car, opening the door and hopping inside, gripping the wheel with shaky hands and slamming his head against it and letting the sobs he had been holding back for so long finally come pouring out. His loud sobs and whimpers filled the car until he couldn’t make a sound anymore and his eyes had completely swollen shut.

Michael finally started up the car, putting on his 80s playlist, hoping that the music he loved would be able to distract him from how hopeless he felt at that very moment. After a night as horrible as that, he just wanted to go home. His head pounded from all the crying, and his vision was blurry from all the tears, but he forced himself to drive away, back towards the safety and comfort of his home, and far away from the pain of Jake’s house, where his worst fear -- the one he never thought he would ever have to experience again -- came true.

**Author's Note:**

> is this good? idk.  
> also heads up im writing the fire scene next so uh if you liked this and it made you emotional prepare?? idk if itll be good but. yeah.


End file.
